


Sweet Words Like Honey

by whiskyandoldspice (Itsirtou)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, First Time, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsirtou/pseuds/whiskyandoldspice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Sam until he's eighteen to realize how much he wants to be Dean's good boy.  (Extremely unapologetic praise!kink.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Words Like Honey

Sam doesn’t know when it starts, but he knows when he first realizes it.

He’s fourteen and in eighth grade and at another new school where John’s promised they can stay for a little while. His teacher looks at him with kind eyes when he introduces Sam to the class and seems to give a damn about this new shy boy that no one else really bothers to talk to.

So when Sam turns in his first assignment his stomach’s twisting in knots even though he knows he got it right, he knows he got all the answers; he stayed up late, later than Dean (stumbling into bed smelling like booze with lipstick smeared up the sweaty column of his neck) getting it done.

The teacher grades the homework in class and walks around the room giving it back. When he gets to Sam and puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, saying, “You did so well,” a little frission of shocking unexpected heat works its way down Sam’s spine. He shivers, just once, under that warm touch.

He gets an A on every assignment.

-

Sam doesn’t know when it starts, but he knows when Dean first realizes it.

He’s sixteen and arguing with Dean about something stupid, about a girl or a hunt or something else that doesn’t matter. It dissolves into a wrestling match when Sam can’t take the bubbling anger in the pit of his stomach anymore. He hates it that he’s got a few inches on Dean now but Dean’s still broader, muscled where Sam is boy-slim, and it only takes a few minutes before Dean has him pinned facedown on the floor, one of Sam’s arms bent behind him awkwardly. Dean uses it for leverage as he straddles Sam’s hips and keeps him there, ground into the dirty motel carpet. Sam struggles but Dean’s a heavy weight on his waist, hand encircling Sam’s wrist too tight, tight enough to bruise, so he goes still. His shirt is hiked up from their wrestling match, and the carpet is rough against the skin of his stomach; the heel of Dean’s palm is hot against his waist, thumb resting at the base of his spine.

Dean laughs when he feels Sam go limp under him and says, “That’s a good boy, Sammy.”

They’re pressed together so tightly that Sam knows Dean can feel the involuntary shudder that runs through him and the way his hips push back into Dean’s; he knows Dean can hear his sharp little indrawn breath. His head feels light, skin feels hot, and the world’s compressing down into singularity, into the heat of Dean holding him still and the way Dean’s words felt like a stroking hand down his back.

Dean leans down, just for a second, so that his chest is hot against Sam’s back and his ear is next to Sam’s mouth, and Sam doesn’t try to stifle the little moan at the heaviness of Dean pressing him down. His heartbeat is rabbiting in his throat and he tastes blood from where he’s bitten his tongue. Desire is a sick twisting living thing in his stomach.

“Fuck,” Dean says, very quietly, and he’s off of Sam, standing over him staring down, and Sam doesn’t move. He keeps his arm behind his back, where Dean had been holding it. He hears Dean swallow wetly and say, “fuck,” and then Dean’s gone.

Body shaking with adrenaline, Sam crawls into Dean’s bed and pushes his face into the pillow. It smells like Dean’s soap and like a girl’s shampoo and he thinks about Dean fucking someone here, right here, holding her hips til she bruises and calling her his pretty girl when she comes screaming on his cock. He whimpers softly in the back of his throat and comes with his hand down his jeans, panting, fingers wrapped a shade too tight around his dick, imagining Dean’s voice rumbling in his ear, good boy, Sammy, my good little brother.

-

Sam doesn’t know when it starts, but he knows when they both give into it.

When his acceptance letter from Stanford finally comes in the mail he doesn’t read it. It’s thick enough and large enough that he knows it’s not a rejection but he still can’t make himself rip it open, so instead he drops it on Dean’s bed and sits next to it on the comforter, toeing his shoes off absently, waiting for Dean to come home.

Dean stumbles home late, long after dark like he always does these days, reeking of rail liquor and smoke and cheap perfume, cracking knuckles on fingers sore from holding a cuestick all night, bills stuffed in the back pockets of his jeans. He has a little bruise underneath his jaw. 

He takes the jacket off and he’s halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, fingers stupid and uncoordinated, when he sees Sam and freezes. Sam tosses him the heavy envelope and watches as Dean opens it and reads the letter. He doesn’t know what he wants, what he’s looking for, why he’s sitting here with his hands clenched around his thighs and his heart in his mouth. Dean reads and re-reads. His fingers clench the paper so hard it wrinkles, the sound of it exploding into the silent room. It’s a long time before he looks up at Sam, and even longer before he finally speaks.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, and Sam doesn’t know what his face looks like in that moment but Dean takes in a deep breath and licks his lips and says, very slowly and deliberately, “You did good, Sam.”

And there it is, what he wanted, what he’s been waiting for, and his breath explodes out of him in a sharp exhalation that ends in a soft pitiful whine. He sees Dean’s jaw clench before Dean strides over to the bed and stands over him, placing his hand on the back of Sam’s neck and squeezing. It’s been a long time coming, this thing between them, and the sharp ache of Dean’s fingertips digging into the sides of his throat is at once a beginning and an end.

“Good,” Dean says in a rough whisper, and if there was any hesitation in either one of them it’s gone the second Sam presses the heel of his palm against his cock, hard and leaking in his jeans, sticking to the fabric of his boxers because fuck, he’s been hard for hours waiting for Dean. “No,” Dean says when he sees what Sam’s doing, “no,” and when Sam takes his hand away with a desperate moan, he smiles, slowly, and says, “good boy.”

Dean says it again when Sam goes down on him, _good boy._ First time taking a cock in his mouth so he chokes on it, predictably, and his face flushes hot because he can imagine all the girls who have done this to Dean, pretty mouths leaving lipstick stains on his flesh. He wants to be that good for his brother too so he tries to take too much too fast and has to lean back, coughing, spit leaking out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin. Dean leans forward and uses the rough pad of his thumb to wipe off Sam’s lower lip.

“Easy this time,” he says, and cups the back of Sam’s head, pushing gently til Sam leans forward again and takes just the head in his mouth and lets the soft hot flesh sit there huge on his tongue. Dean smiles down at him, stroking the skin of his cheek as it bulges, and tells him what to do, tells him how to move his tongue, how hard, how fast, how to let his mouth fill up with saliva so it’s slick and wet, and Sam only chokes a few more times before he gets the hang of it because he’s smart and he’s a quick study and he’s good. When the head of Dean’s cock pushes against his the back of his throat he manages to suppress the urge to gag and takes it deeper til his nose is pressed against curly crisp hair and he’s breathing heavy and a little panicked through his nose. “Fuck,” Dean swears above him, “fuckin’ made for this, Sammy, so good for me,” so he relaxes and stays still, lets Dean fuck his mouth and his throat, fingers clenched tight around Sam’s jaw.

Dean says it again, good boy, when Sam takes all three of Dean’s thick fingers without tensing up, gasping soundlessly, spread wide with one leg over Dean’s shoulder, thighs trembling with the effort of staying still. The cold metal of Dean’s ring presses against the stretched rim of his hole when Dean pushes in to the knuckles.

And then, “God,” Dean gasps, “good boy, Sammy, oh fuck,” as he presses into Sam, forcing him open wide. Sam can feel the shape of Dean’s cock as it spears into him and splits him open; he’s whining and clenching tight to Dean’s biceps, but Dean’s not stopping, gritting his teeth and pushing forward and making Sam take it, all of it, til Dean’s hips are pressed tight against Sam’s. He jolts with surprise when Dean presses his fingers into Sam’s pelvis right above his dick, digging in deep, like he’s trying to feel the shape of his cock nestled huge in Sam’s body.

When Sam comes it feels like a punch, sudden and almost cruel in its intensity, and he jerks with aftershocks as Dean rubs Sam’s come into the skin of his stomach and chest, whispering praise into Sam’s ear and fucking him deep and slow; Sam’s cock is soft against his thigh but the hot thick slide of Dean’s cock into his body still feels so good that he thinks he might die from it.

He doesn’t realize that he’s shaking until Dean rolls off of him. Dean gathers him up against his chest, tucking Sam’s head underneath his chin and rubbing his back until Sam quiets and stops shivering. His ass feels open and loose, wet, and when Dean presses in two fingers absently it just feels like a sweet good ache, so he arches his hips a little and lets out a breathy pleased noise.

He’s drifting off to sleep, a contented lassitude in his tired muscles.

“One more time,” he mumbles into Dean’s neck, past the point of shame or caring, and it’s worth it, anyway, when Dean laughs a little and cards his hand through Sam’s hair. 

“Like a little kid, Sammy,” Dean says, but there’s a smile in his voice. “Good, Sam. You’re so good.”

He falls asleep seconds later, Dean’s hand still combing absently through the curls at the back of Sam’s neck.


End file.
